Droplets
by Sucktacular
Summary: Post-Reichenback. It's been months since the famed consulting-detective had his world tarnished by Moriarty. Months since they laid him to rest in that cold quiet soil. Months since John had shed much of a smile, let alone tear since the funeral. Returning home one evening he discovers his flat broken into. Pessimistic thoughts wonder how much worse the evening could get.


A rainy London night. Not very out of the ordinary. Cars splash through puddles pooling on the road and people dash into the little café near by, shaking out their umbrellas and proceeding to order a hot cup of what-ever while they dry off.

A few moments later another individual comes splashing up the sidewalk, pulling out a key and unlocking the door to the flat nearest the café. Shutting the door he takes a moment to catch his breath and shake a few drops off his drenched coat before proceeding to slosh up the wooden stares to his room. He reaches the top of the stairs and glances up from the floor to his jarred door. Someone was there. Friend or foe?

Straightening himself out he slowly pushes the door open, creaking and shining the hallway light into the dark room. He steps inside the room and reaches to the side, flicking on the light. Indeed there was someone there. A mess of dark curls, pale skin and dark clothes was positioned in a chair near the fireplace.

"Dreadful weather rain is, isn't it John?"

He almost fell to his feet at the sight.

"Sherlock?"

He says in a shaky breath. His heart pounding in his ears and a cold feeling stabbing at his chest and throat. He takes a few steps towards the figure, completely in disbelief. Was this a dream? A nightmare that he'd soon awaken from in cold sweat, once again?

Sherlock takes a stand from his leather seat and takes a few small steps towards the stunned John. A meter apart they stare each other in the eye till Sherlock shines a small familiar smile to his drenched friend. He was genuinely happy to finally see his friend again face to face and not from the distance in a dingy alley-way. But his charming smile is soon met with a hard jab to the face and finds himself struggling, bent over in a head lock. They struggle and argue, Sherlock coughing out apologizes and John shouting oddly conjoined curses. Only after almost choking the smart-ass out does John release his gasping friend and sit down in his chair. Taking a moment to look Sherlock over and proceed to take a heavy breath and cover his face in frustration.

A few moments of quiet tension pass by and thoughts of accepting the idiots apologizes and apologizing himself begun to cross John's mind. But before he can get the words together Sherlock begins to blurt out in exacerbated, questioning breaths "Well, are you curious?"

John moves his hands a bit to look up at the very not dead and seemingly excited Sherlock and raises his brow.

"W… What? What are you going on about?

"I mean, aren't you the least bit curious how I did it? How I was able to fake my big death? To survive the great fall and fool even your trained hands?"

He spoke in excited tones. Flailing his gestures and spinning about. John, however, was much less impressed. He clenched his teeth and balled his fists. "You fucking think that-!" John begins to shout out, only before catching himself and mentally biting his tongue. He smooths his hands on his face again, leaning forward in his chair with a few strong aggravated breaths. '_Calm down, John.. Calm down._' He tells himself.

His friend was back from the dead. His best friend. Sure they'd need to talk about all this sooner or later. And sure he was being an egotistical ass-hole. But that was Sherlock and that was a hundred times better than him being dead. Besides, shouldn't this be the time for a celebration of sorts? It's not everyday one 'rises from the grave'. John moves his hands up from his face, messing his damp hair in thought.

Sherlock stands a few feet away, a puzzled expression adorn his features as he fumbles with his hands in the tedious silence. Like a child who had been scolded by their parents into 'thinking about what they've don_e'_.

With a huff John pushes him self from his chair. He takes a few ridged steps back towards Sherlock, not offering anything but the floor and eventually Sherlocks black shoes a glance. Suddenly the taller man flitches as the blond reaches his arms around him. Holding him close and burying his head into his warm, dry coat.

Sherlock is a bit taken aback. Surprised even. He tilts his vision down a bit to view the smallers messy, wet hair. "John-" Sherlock begins, only to meet a quick set of words shoot from Johns mouth, muffled slightly in his coat.

"You're a god damn fuck, git! Will you shut the hell up already and enjoy the silence for once?"

Sherlock freezes up and takes a small gulp, closing his mouth. A cold stab in his throat washes over him, if only for a second.

With John still tightly clung to his torso, he takes a chance to reach his arms around him, returning the embrace. He doesn't exactly know much of comforting but he figures this is the right action to make in such situations.

John was always the type to never let someone see him cry. To see him express too much strong emotion, even. He desired to hold an image of being strong, whether or not that was true to him. But no longer being able to hold back the sudden flood of high emotions, he lets out a sob of tears and muffled whimpers into Sherlocks chest. Tightly gripping his coat in his hands. He was so glad to have his best friend back. To finally let go of all the pain. To hold him for once and to in return be held. All these thoughts flash in his mind and he grips even tighter to Sherlocks coat, gritting his teeth and coughing out choked tears. He finally was able to just let all the bottled emotion steam out, as terrifyingly vulnerable as it made him feel. But even though he had lied, faked his death and left John alone for so long he still trusted that damn Sherlock Holmes.

And Sherlock knew all this about John. While he felt out-of-place in the situation he knew this was good for John. So he simply allowed him the silence and comfort, continuing to hold him close, even sewing his gloved fingers through Johns mess of gold hair and holding his head gently to him. Patting his back time to time as he had seen other do before in such moments of consoling.

A night of dreadful weather it was, but not a dreadful night in all. With John's best friend back in his presence - in his arms, no drop of rain or escaped tear could lessen the true happiness he felt to know Sherlock was alive. Alive and back in his life. That while everything may the same, it'll all be okay.


End file.
